Tidbits Strikes Back
by Banisters
Summary: Remember the first Tidbits prolly not...BUT IT IS BACK. A whole new bushel of my unfinsihed newsies stories are up. And, if you want, you may finish 'em.


**Vertigo:**  
_First Person View: **Jack Kelly**  
Angst/Romance  
Modern Day _

They stumble into the apartment like drunks.  
Like bums who binge on billions of bottles of beer.  
They can barely stand.

So they grab each other for balance.  
Neither can let go.  
If they lift a finger they're both going to fall.  
Both of those idiots are going to tumble.

Right to the floor.  
The shag carpet floor with the stains on it.

I wish they would fall.  
Plummet down to the cheap carpet.  
Bash their heads on the ground.  
Create another stain to keep the others company.

Yes.  
The blood would look fine next to the splatter of Coke.  
But they don't fall.  
They don't trip.  
They just swagger forward.  
They just crack up.

I want to laugh along with them.  
Of course, I cannot.  
I'm too sadistic to laugh.  
Too pissed off.  
Too emotionally hurt.

I sound emo.  
Thank God I don't look it though.  
Sarah does, though.  
With all that eyeliner on…

**Bounty:**  
_First Person View: **Jack Kelly**  
Drama/Mysery  
Turn of the century _**  
**  
The suspect always returns to the scene of the crime.That's what they say.  
But that's wrong.  
Completely, totally, utterly wrong.

The truth is that the witness always returns to the scene of the crime.  
Which is why I'm here, right now, trying to piece everything together.  
So far, I know the following:

The crime that has been committed is sexual assault.  
The victim's surname is Conlon.  
The evidence that supports this…well…let's just say I trust my own eyes.  
The suspect of this crime…

Unknown.

You wouldn't think a guy could be raped.  
Really, you wouldn't.  
It's so absurd.  
Especially for a guy like Spot.  
He's so intimidating; you wouldn't think anyone would do that.

But they did.  
They broke him.  
Broke his soul.  
Broke his power.  
They broke his crown.  
They broke this throne.

Spot isn't the king of Brooklyn anymore.  
You can't be a king if you feel worthless.  
And that's why I'm here.  
I'm here to mend his crown.  
To put him back on his throne.

I'm here to find whoever did this to him.  
I'm here to avenge Brooklyn.  
I'm here kill…

**How You Play The Game:**_  
First Person View: **Jack Kelly  
**General  
Turn of the century _

Life is a game. Nothing but a game in which they claim the point is to have fun.  
But we all know that the true purpose of every game.  
To win.

In this game of life, you have winners and you have losers.  
The winner, of course, is the one who walks away with the prize.

The one who shouts "Uno!"  
The one who gets three O's in a row.  
The one who passes "Go" and collects two hundred dollars.

But then, you have the losers.  
The one who is just one card away from Uno.  
The one who was just about to scribble down another "X".  
The one who planned on selling their property but drew the wrong card and is sending their thimble in the direction of Monopoly jail.

And where do I fit in this game of winners and losers?

Some would say I'm a winner.  
They would look at all that I've gained.  
My glorious reputation.  
My boys.  
The strike.  
The success in my life.

Then again, some would say that I'm a loser.  
They would look at all that I've lost.  
My parents.  
Santa Fe.  
My dreams.  
The failure in my life.

My perspective is one I am still trying to figure out.  
Have I spelled out enough words on the Scrabble board?  
Or am I still rolling the dice?

Am I the one who picks the ace of spades before a game of BS?  
Or am I the one feeling disappointed at the sight of a three of clubs?

There is still one possibility.Maybe I'm the one who is full of spirit.  
The one on the sidelines cheering everyone on.  
The one who doesn't care about winning or losing  
Maybe I'm the one who plays the game just for the hell of it.  
The one who plays for fun.

Because, maybe it isn't about whether you win or lose.  
Maybe it's about how you play the game.

**Flight 23 To Boston:  
**_Third Person View: L**imited to Jackal**  
Drama/Humor  
Modern Day _

Jackal hated waiting.

She hated it more than arrogance, spiders, rich kids, bad guitar solos, dark corridors, and silence. She hated it more than throwing up, migraine headaches, and panic attacks. Well, actually, forget that last sentence. Waiting wasn't as bad as retching or dealing with throbbing craniums and horrible fear. Those three things were quite awful.

However, that did not change the fact that impatience was spreading through Jackal at an alarming rate. Anyone who walked by could tell that asking her to move out of the way was a bad idea, in spite of the fact that she was standing blatantly in the middle of an airport security area. No one dared to approach the scowling girl who was tapping her foot in irritation while staring vacantly at nothing. That was a fact.

"Flight 23 to Boston!"

Jackal twitched involuntarily at the announcement. She had been concentrating on the noises around her, hoping to pick up the sounds of the group of impertinent boys she considered friends. Scratch that, those newspaper boys were definitely friends…or more. If they weren't, Jackal wouldn't have bothered to get up at 5:45 every morning to meet up with them and swap paper routes. The pay wasn't good, so why else would a hormone-influenced teenage female hang around with astonishingly attractive teenage males?

She didn't fit in with them, look-wise, that is. Jackal had a frowzy style that she put no effort into trying to fix. She was tall and thin, but definitely not "hot". Her shoulder length brown hair often had split ends, which made Jackal feel like she had a mane. Her clothes tended to be simple, like jeans and hooded sweatshirts and tattered Converse shoes. The typical "scene kid" look, although she wasn't aiming for that style. It was just irony working its magic. Abra flippin' kadabra.

"Flight 87 to Sydney!"

Poor Jackal twitched again, which caught the eye of several passersby. She sighed, aggravation clinging to her breath. She had already waited six months to raise enough money for plane tickets. She had waited two hours fighting through traffic to get to the airport. She had waited a total of seven minutes and nineteen seconds behind a sobbing child in a line at the cheap airport Orange Julius, only to find out that their ice machine was broken. No smoothie solace for Jackal.

"Come on, guys… she muttered to herself. " Where _are_ you?"

Perhaps she had expected too much out of the guys. It was a Saturday, and most of them slept in late, exhausted from Friday night parties and dates. However, Jackal had bought all of their tickets for them, so of course they wouldn't sleep in. Who would sleep in when they had the chance to fly to Ireland for free?

"No, dumbass, I'm not carrying any weapons!" a familiar rude voice shouted, interrupting Jackal's thoughts and worries.

No more waiting. The boys _definitely_ were here.

Jackal smirked and turned around, looking the others. Her jade eyes passed from an elderly couple to a child dressed in punk wardrobe to a slutty looking whore-girl and finally to a ragged bunch of boys. The newsies.

Jack was leaning against the conveyer belt and watching luggage go by, his posture suggesting he was feeling quite bored. Nearby, Mush and Blink were arguing about which rocker was better, David Bowie or Billy Idol. Skittery and David had struck up a conversation about colleges and scholarships, while Racetrack listened discretely and occasionally tossed in jokes about Princeton or MIT that Les would snicker at. The others were scattered around in a good sized crowd, and among them, Jackal caught site of Boots and couldn't help but smile.

And then there was Spot, rebelling against a security worker. Typical.

"Son, can you please take off any metal you have on you?" the guard asked Spot.

"I don't have any Goddamn metal on me! Leave me alone!" Spot spat, jerking himself away from the guard.

"Look, kid, you can't get on the plane if you're suspected of having a weapon," the guard said as he began patting down Spot's body in an attempt to find a knife or gun.

"Don't touch me, you fucking faggot-pedophile!" Spot growled.

While Spot was struggling with the guard, Jackal strode over to the other boys and let out a sigh of relief. They looked relieved as well, as if they had been fretting about missing their flight as well.

"Heya Jackal!"

"Hi, Kal-Kal!"

"Sup, Jackie-Gal?"

"_Where the hell were you all?_" Jackal inquired bluntly. The boys all looked down at their shoes, suddenly quiet, and pretended to count the patterns on the sparse airport carpet. Jackal repeated herself, but still only received fearful glances and stifled coughs.

"Uh…you see…there was uh…you know," Mush stuttered awkwardly.

"Uh…you see…I don't know," Jackal mocked.

"There was a car accident, right guys?" David said. The other boys nodded their heads vigorously, resembling emo kids head-banging to Hawthorne Heights. Pitiful.

"Dave, how do you expect to lie about your accomplishments on your college application if you can't even lie to a _girl_?" exclaimed Jackal cynically. This aroused a round of "Ohhhhhh, buuuurn" from the newsies.

"You wanna know the truth?"

"Sure seems like it, doesn't it?"

**Love Is For The Pretty People:  
**_First Person View: **David**  
Romance/Angst/Humor  
Modern Day (Sequal to "Paper Clips" when it is finished)_**  
**

Love is for the pretty people.  
Romance is for the beautiful and the handsome.  
The people with radiating skin, gleaming hair, arched eyebrows, and straight teeth.  
The people with chiseled faces, fierce eyes, brawn, and light stubble.

In others words, not me.

I'm not supposed to get involved with love. I am not allowed to, because I'm not attractive.

But somehow I did. Somehow, someone made a mistake and threw me into the game of the gorgeous.

I was an exception.


End file.
